My Dearest, Laurens
by ShortInsomniac
Summary: AU where John Laurens survived the war and was secretly rescued by the Marquis de Lafayette and taken by ship to France. Loosely follows the plot of Act II and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

To a Mister Alexander Hamilton:

On Tuesday the twenty-seventh, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was killed in a gunfight against British troops in South Carolina. These troops had not yet received word from Yorktown that the war was over. He is buried here until his family can send for his remains.

As you may know, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was engaged in recruiting three thousand men for the first all-black military regiment. The surviving members of this regiment have been returned to their masters.

-H.L.

* * *

 _This letter, Alexander laid at the back of his bottom desk drawer, hoping to forget it as he buried himself neck-deep in his work. After Laurens' death, it was all he really had left._

 _Wasn't it?_

 _Sure, he had his beautiful wife, Eliza, and his perfect, perfect baby son, Philip, but with Laurens, it seemed a large part of him died. Laurens was so much more than a friend, more than a summer love. Laurens was probably the only one with whom Alex truly clicked. And now…_

… _and now he was gone._

 _So Alexander Hamilton immediately dove back into his studies, got his law degree, and joined a practice. The work seemed to help him forget, for a time. At least, it allowed him to focus his mind elsewhere, and if he tried hard enough, he could go days without thinking of that goddamned letter at the back of his bottom left desk drawer._

 _That is, until Eliza came to him as he was writing up the draft for the Manhattan Well Murder case._

" _Alexander," she said. "A letter has just arrived from France. Shall I open it?"_

" _Ah, just leave it here; I'll get to it in a moment," he said without leaving up. "Probably just Lafayette letting me know he's made it back home safe and sound."_

 _She came in and set it at the edge of his desk, then turned and walked solemnly out of the small, dimly-lit room. She missed her husband, but she didn't have the heart to say a word, only to take what little time he would offer to her, to serve him his meals, feed and clothe his children, and wait for the nights he would choose to set his work aside and come to her._

" _Thank you," he said once she was already out the door, unaware of the fact that she had gone._

 _Several minutes later, he set his pen down and grabbed the letter and opened it casually, certain it wasn't anything important, just his friend being a friend._

* * *

Mon Ami,

As you have probably already guessed, I am writing to tell you I have made it back to France. Things are worse here than I remembered. Yes, the streets are just as filthy and the people are just as restless, but it is more than that. The tension seems to rise ever higher, and I do not feel comfortable in my own home, though I'm sure the feeling will pass. Perhaps, as my dear Adrienne tells me, it is nothing and I just need time to adjust back to French living.

I hope you are doing well. Your child should be here by now, am I right? Is it a boy or a girl? I do hope, whichever it may be, that they are more like their dear mother than their bastard of a father. Ah, Monsieur Hamilton, you know I am only joking. Please give Eliza my regards, and give that precious child a kiss from me. I'm sure you will be a wonderful father, and I know Eliza will make a perfect mother.

I hope to hear from you soon, Alexander. Let me know how freedom feels, how it smells, how it tastes, for here, I fear it will not come soon enough for my people. And tell me all about that new child of yours as soon as you can! I would love to introduce him or her to my dear children someday, though I do not know when I will be in America again, or if the Hamiltons will ever come to France.

-Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette

PS – M. Laurens sends his regards

* * *

 _Before reading the letter, Alex had felt it was only mechanical, a customary thing, a way for his friend to touch base and allow him to know he had made safe passage back home to his own land, and many times throughout the letter, he had smiled, gladdened by all Lafayette had to say, and touched by his interest in Alex's home life._

 _But that last line…that last line angered him. He wadded up the paper and threw it across the room, cursing the Marquis's blatant disrespect. He had to know Alexander was mourning the death of the Lieutenant Colonel as much as he and their other friends were, possibly more so, given the closeness of their relationship. Lafayette, Alex believed, was taunting him, poking fun at his broken, bleeding heart and all the tears he had shed in private._

 _Perhaps, he thought, perhaps…perhaps he didn't mean any harm._

 _Less angry, Alexander Hamilton stood, crossed the room to where the ball of parchment had landed, and stooped to pick it up. With shaking hands and a heavy heart, he laid it gently on the desk and began to smooth it out._

 _Then he folded it and placed it back in its envelope and at the back of that same bottom left-hand desk drawer with the other._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _Soon, memory of both letters began to fade. Alexander Hamilton finished up the Weeks case and soon after received notice from George Washington that he was the top pick for Treasury Secretary of the United States, and though he would have preferred to take on the position of Secretary of State, he accepted._

 _He worked tirelessly, day in and day out, everyday becoming more and more worn by his work, angered by his fellow cabinet members, and stressed beyond belief. His debt plan was being stomped into the dirt, the Constitution was being dragged through the muck, and every morning, the papers seemed to remind him of these facts._

 _Not only that, just weeks before, Angelica left for London, reminding him that all he really had left after the war was his wife, his child, and his work. All his friends were now gone, either dead, or moved on._

 _He dove deeper into his work._

" _Alex, dear, can you check the mail?" Eliza asked him after dinner as she was clearing the table._

 _He had just been about to retreat back to his office, but he turned at the door and looked at her. She smiled sweetly at him, and he saw the lines under her eyes, the tiredness, the hair falling out of its pins. She was suffering, too, and he hurt even more to think that at least a little bit of it might have been his fault. So he smiled at her and nodded._

" _Yes, of course," he said softly, and he crossed the room to kiss her on the cheek. "I love you."_

" _I love you, too," she said in response, her voice nearly a whisper._

" _I'll try to cut the work short tonight, okay?"_

" _Don't make promises you can't keep."_

 _His smile fell. "I mean it. I'll come to bed on time tonight."_

" _I'll wait a little while then," she said._

" _Thank you," he whispered, kissing her again, "for everything."_

 _She returned to her task of clearing the table, smiling a little now, and he was glad. She deserved more happiness than he could ever give her, he knew. Maybe her father had been right._

 _In the little metal box by the door, he found a collection of small envelopes, two addressed to Eliza, likely from her sisters, and a few more for himself. Eliza's, he set by her embroidery basket in the sitting room before departing for his own little hideaway._

 _The first two envelopes, he found, contained nothing but receipts and things from the bank. He filed them quickly and opened the next envelope._

* * *

Mon Ami,

You have not responded to my first letter. It has been nearly a year. I thought maybe the post might be slow, but…this long leaves me to wonder. You are usually very punctual with your responses. Alexander, is everything all right? Are you feeling well? Is Eliza well? Your child?

Please respond, mon ami. I am very worried.

-Lafayette

PS – I have enclosed another letter for you, at the risk of interception, but he is very insistent. Being much the same, I am sure you will understand and that you won't mind.

* * *

 _He? What did Lafayette mean, he? Who is he?_

 _Confused, Alex opened the envelope again and, sure enough, found a small, folded slip of paper. He set Laff's letter aside and opened this new one curiously._

 _This should surely tell him who 'he' is._

* * *

Dear Mister Hamilton,

I know it is probably not in my best interest to write you, considering the state of things where I am now, but I had to let you know that I am fine.

I am alive, and that is as much information as I can give you for now, Alexander.

-J


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 _Alexander's hands shook and his breathing stopped altogether. He dropped the slip of paper onto his desk and let his hands fall into his lap. He rocked slowly in his chair, shaking his head, barely able to believe what he had just read._

 _But it was his handwriting._

His _handwriting._

 _His_ beautiful _handwriting._

 _Alexander closed his eyes, sobs wracking his body, and he covered his face as he thought of all the pain of the last year since hearing of John Laurens' death._

 _And now he knew that he wasn't dead. He was in France._

" _Thank God," he said, and he laughed through his tears._

 _When he looked up, he saw that the corner of that slip of paper had caught fire, having brushed the flame of the candle on the desk when he had set it down, and he gasped, grabbing it quickly and dropping it onto the floor. He stomped on it to put the flames out._

" _Alexander, is everything okay?" Eliza asked, appearing in the doorway._

 _He snatched the burned paper off the floor and hid it behind his back. "Of course, dear."_

" _All right," she said, smiling, and she left him again._

 _He didn't know if he could tell her. He didn't want anyone to know, since John and Lafayette obviously didn't want anyone to know._

 _Looking down at the burnt paper in his hand, he saw that it was ruined, illegible now, and no more than trash in its current condition. Perhaps that was for the best. He crumpled up what was left of it, and it crumbled to black sooty ash in his hands, which he deposited in the rubbish bin beside his desk._

 _While the contents of the note were still fresh in his mind, he went to work writing back to Mr. Laurens._

* * *

Dear J,

God damn you! I hate you for what you have done to me, you bastard. How could you allow me to live a year of my life wasted this way, full of tears and sorrow? You are such a selfish prick and I shall never be able to bring myself to forgive you for what you have done to me. May your God-forsaken, black, twisted soul rot in hell when you do finally die, but first I hope you have an excruciatingly long existence on this earth.

 _Bastard_.

Wait.

I do not mean that, my dearest. Forgive me. My God, you would not believe how grateful I am to hear from you after nearly a year of believing you to be dead, gone from this world forever. My love, I cannot tell you how much it pleased me to see something as simple as your handwriting on a bit of paper delivered secondhand to me. I have missed you dearly, and still do. But hope has been instilled in me to know that you are alive somewhere. I hope you are well.

-A

PS – I have a son now. His name is Philip.

* * *

 _To the Marquis, his blessed messenger, he wrote:_

* * *

Gilbert,

I apologize greatly for the delay. I have been very busy as of late with my work.

I am happy to know you are home safely and with your dear Adrienne and your little ones. Please keep me updated on the state of things where you are, my friend.

I am doing all right. Eliza is doing well, too. As for the child, I have a son: Philip, after my wife's father. He is the perfect child. I love him more than words can say. Having him around has helped me so much since the war ended. Children are such a blessing. I understand now why you always spoke of missing yours so much when we would talk by the fires at night.

Your friend,

A. Ham

PS – thank you for delivering John's messages to me; I am grateful for these small notices that he is O.K.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

My dearest, Laurens,

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day."

I trust you understand the reference to another Scottish tragedy without my having to name the play. They think me Macbeth; ambition is my folly. I'm a polymath, a pain in the ass, a massive pain. Madison is Banquo, Jefferson is Macduff, and Birnam Wood is Congress on its way to Dunsinane.

And there you are, an ocean away. Do you have to live an ocean away? Thoughts of you subside, then I get another letter, and I cannot put the notion away.

I love you, John, and I miss you. I do wish you could come home, that you could live with me, or near me, and that we could be together again. We were the best of friends, weren't we? But would we really call it 'friends?' I'm not so sure. It seemed more than that. Anyhow, I'm sure Washington would remember what a wonderful aide de camp you were and offer you a position in the cabinet. Perhaps, with your knowledge of the world, we could replace Jefferson with the likes of you.

Ah, one can get carried away in these dreams, can't he? I apologize for worrying your heart with my troubles and desires. Hope to hear from you soon, J.

-A. Ham

* * *

 _Alexander sighed heavily as he looked down at this letter, wanting to kick himself. Just three weeks before, he had sent one with such near-identical similarity to Angelica that there was no mistaking them as being written by the same author. Just as well, he thought. They often crossed paths in his fantasies, and had begun to blur together, and he wasn't sure what he had said to whom by the end of each evening._

 _The years went by, and sometimes Alexander went months and months without hearing from John, or from the Marquis; other times, he would get letter after letter, in perfect punctuality for a few weeks at a time. But he did not worry. He knew they were both smart, strong men and that they could handle whatever life – and France – would throw at them. In his heart, he knew they were fine._

 _Angelica wrote, too, of course, all the way from London, filling the time between Laurens' letters, which brought much joy to his heart. Alexander Hamilton smiled at every letter he received, knowing that across the sea, there were two hearts in which he could reside, and whose owners longed for him as much as he longed for them._

 _It pained him, however, knowing that he was wasting so much time and so much love worrying about them, and so much effort focusing on work, when Eliza was there all the time, sitting in his very own house, neglected as much as John and Angelica were. She was right there, and he barely took the time to speak to her at dinner. He hated himself for this._

 _Every day, he would hear Eliza teaching the children English and French, reading and writing, arithmetic, and playing the piano with them, and he would sigh, wishing he could go and play with them or help her in teaching them, but he knew if he did that he would be neglecting his work._

" _Philip has something he would like to show you, Alexander," Eliza said on what happened to be their eldest son's ninth birthday._

" _I'll be down in a minute, love," he said, writing furiously, not even looking up._

" _Please," she said, "he is dying to show you."_

" _Oh, all right," he sighed, and turned around._

 _There, he saw his wife and son standing in the middle of his office. Philip was smiling brightly at his father, and Alexander couldn't help but smile back and forget his previous inconvenience. The boy truly was the light of his life._

" _Daddy, I wrote you a poem," Philip said, handing Alexander a sheet of paper._

 _It was written so neatly, so precisely, so beautifully. Alexander was impressed, and he couldn't wait to show the men at work and tell them, "My son wrote this for me. Isn't it great?"_

" _Philip, darling, this is beautiful…but today is your birthday," he said. "Why are you giving me something?"_

 _Philip giggled, but did not answer._

" _I think I am supposed to give you something," Alexander went on. "What would you like for your birthday? I'll see if I can get it for you."_

" _Well…"_

" _Yes?" Alexander asked._

" _I want a baby brother," Philip blurted out suddenly. "I already have a sister, but I want a little brother, too."_

 _Alexander's eyes widened, and he looked to his wife, who was blushing, her eyes just as wide as his._

" _Okay," Alexander laughed. "I don't think I can get that to you today, but maybe by your tenth birthday we might be able to."_

" _Really?" Philip said excitedly._

 _Eliza and Alexander laughed._

" _Maybe," Eliza said, putting her hands on her son's shoulders and leading him to the door. "Go finish your lesson and I'll be up to check your work in a minute."_

" _Aww," Philip whined, but did as his mother said._

" _Oh, are we going to get to work on that already?" Alex teased, standing to pull his wife in and kiss her._

" _No," she giggled, and she returned the kiss, then she whispered: "Maybe tonight," and kissed him on the cheek._

" _Oh, that's a good bit of persuasion to get me to finish my work early tonight," he said._

" _Angelica is arriving today," Eliza said. "Philip, Angie, and I are going down to the docks to meet her. Would you like to go with us?"_

" _Of course," he smiled, and turned to close the folder of papers he had been writing in. "Just let me get my coat."_

 _As the family walked down to the docks together, Alexander watched Philip and Angie skip ahead, singing some schoolyard song they had learned from their playdates with Theodosia Burr (which had been requested by Eliza, against Alex's wishes, but he did not protest too much). Through the cool afternoon wind, it warmed his heart to see his children so happy._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Dearest Alex,

I am overjoyed to tell you that Lafayette has arranged for Martha and Frances to come and live with us. It has been so long since I have seen my wife or my daughter, and I am happy to be with them again. The last few years have been so hard, and so devastatingly long. Martha was just as pissed as you to find out I was still alive, and that she had been lied to unnecessarily, but she gladly accepted me back, thankfully.

Frances is more beautiful than I ever imagined. She is thirteen now, nearly a woman. She does not know me, and is a little harder than her mother. I can tell she wants to love me and to know me, but having never met me before, it must be hard. I cannot imagine what it is like to grow up without a father and then to suddenly be told the likes of John Laurens is your father. I am a terrible one anyhow, and at this point, what is the point? At the very least, I am making an effort to be her friend. I know I cannot make up for the lost time, but I can try to give what time I have now to her and to be a good example for her. I think she is exactly what I've needed to help me settle down and gain a little responsibility.

Oh, Alexander, I think you would love her so much. Martha, too. I would love for you to meet my family someday, but Lafayette has been telling me he doesn't know if we'll ever see you or your family again and that I should try to be happy with our written correspondence. I am trying.

Anyway, about Jefferson and Madison, they sound like two pieces of work. I'm sorry you have to deal with that, but you're a smart man. You're good at what you do, so just keep working hard and you'll get through to them.

-J

* * *

 _At dinner that evening, Alex found himself thinking back to John's letter upstairs, safely tucked under one of his essays, and he became increasingly distracted, so much so, that he barely heard what Eliza and Angelica hand been discussing just to his left._

" _Did you hear what I just said?" Eliza asked._

" _No; I'm sorry. Can you repeat it?"_

" _Of course," she sighed. "I was saying that this summer we're going to my father's home upstate for a little bit of a vacation. You will be joining us, correct?"_

" _Um…"_

" _Alexander," Angelica said, "please take just a little bit of a break from your work and join us."_

" _Oh, you'll be going?" he asked._

" _Don't suddenly act interested when you know it won't just be me and the kids and my dad," Eliza laughed. "Of course the Churches will be joining us."_

" _I'll have to think about it," Alexander said, and he continued eating the potatoes he had mistakenly dipped a double serving of at the start of dinner, when he was distracted by thoughts of what French summers must be like._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Alexander,

I am sorry to hear that you were unable to go on vacation with your family. Family is such a blessing. I am glad to have mine back, as I should have all along. Martha is expecting a child, who should be here by midwinter. I am so happy, Alexander. I want happiness for you, too, my love. Work is important, but really, so is family and leisure. Remember that, and take time to spend with your children and your wife while you still can.

Don't let the trouble at work get you down. I've told you once and I'll tell you again: you are a very smart, very talented man. You will get where you want to be in time. Don't try to rush things. That is your one flaw. My love, take your time. Work hard and don't waste your time, but do take your time and try to get things done at a logical pace.

-J

PS – "My dearest, Laurens"…I see what you did there, and I am blushing, sir.

* * *

 _Alexander folded this letter neatly, smiling as he placed it in the drawer with the others. He didn't place them there anymore to hide them from himself anymore, but to hide them from any other curious soul who might wish to see what Secretary Hamilton has been up to in his office so late at night. He picked up a pen and a blank sheet of paper to write a reply, but all he had gotten down was "Dear Laurens," before there came a knock at his front door._

 _He sighed and scooted his chair back from the desk, and he stepped back into his shoes and made his way downstairs to the front door. Whoever it was knocked again, and he rolled his eyes, walking just a bit faster now._

" _Alright, alright, I'm coming!" he said, and he swung the door open._

 _Before him, he saw a young lady, who looked to be barely twenty-three. She was wearing an exquisite red dress and her hair was done up beautifully. The rouge that gave color to her face, however, looked cheap, but he barely noticed this._

" _Yes, hello, um, how may I help you?" he said, much more politely than he initially planned to be._

" _Hi, yes," she giggled. "You see, well, I'm sorry to bother you. You're Alexander Hamilton, right?"_

" _Yes, ma'am, I am," he said._

" _Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton?" she asked, as though for clarification._

" _Yes," he said, nodding. "How can I help you, dear?"_

 _She smiled sweetly and bit her lower lip, looking him up and down. She giggled again before bursting into tears. Quickly, she composed herself enough to speak: "I…I know I shouldn't bother you with this, given who you are, but…"_

" _What is it?"_

 _She covered her face with her hands. "I live right down the street, and…"_

" _What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked, and he put a hand on her arm._

" _Well, you see, my husband," she said, "he, well, sir, he beats me. And three days ago he left. I don't know where he went or if he's coming back. I'm running out of food and I have no money, and I have a daughter at home. She's with my sister now because, well, because I have no money to feed her or take care of her."_

" _Oh my…" Alex said, shocked. "Come inside. I can loan you some money and get you something to eat."_

 _He took her by the arm and led her inside to the sitting room, where she sat on the sofa, crying dramatically. Then he went back to the kitchen to get a plate and some of the leftovers Eliza had left for him while she and the children were gone. He made a pot of tea and brought that and the food out to the young lady._

" _Here you are," he said, handing them to her._

" _Thank you," she said, smiling at him but still looking sad as ever. "You're too kind."_

" _It's nothing," he shook his head._

 _After she had eaten, she walked upstairs with him to his bedroom, where he had the money he promised her hidden safely in a drawer. When he turned around to hand it to her, she took it and slipped it into her dress pocket._

" _Thank you," she said, "again."_

" _You're welcome, Miss," he said politely, giving her a little smile._

 _She took a step closer, and suddenly Alexander became nervous. Her hand brushed a strand of his hair back, which had come loose from his ponytail and fallen in his face, and she looked into his eyes._

" _What are you doing?" he whispered, but he didn't move._

 _She bit her lower lip again, just as she had at the door, and looked at his lips, then down to the buttons on his waistcoat. Her hand caressed his cheek and slid down, down his neck to his chest, and she undid a few buttons._

" _Ma'am, I'm married, so this really isn't –"_

 _She kissed him then and walked forward, her body pressing against his as she led him over to the bed, sat him down, and climbed into his lap. He didn't stop her. In fact, what he did next seemed to encourage this behavior. He buried one hand in her hair and placed the other on her back, pulling her tighter to him as his fingers worked on the buttons at the back of her dress._

 _What followed didn't take much time. But then, it wouldn't have mattered much if it had taken five minutes or all day. He tried not to let something as trivial as that weigh too heavily on his mind; at least, not so heavily as the fact that he had officially cheated on his wife. Sure, he had thought about it every time he wrote to Angelica or John, but this really happened, and he hadn't even anticipated it. It was a terrible mistake, and Alexander knew that almost as soon as he came back down from the high this girl had given him. He watched her dress in silence, knowing there wasn't much to say._

" _Thank you again, Mr. Hamilton," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him as she fastened her skirt._

 _He laughed, not really amused, but more bitter with himself, and he ran a hand through his hair._

" _I can show myself out, if you don't mind," she said._

" _Wait," he said, stopping her in her tracks. From where he still was in bed, he looked at her, trying to commit her image to memory for some reason he could not determine. "I don't think I ever caught your name."_

" _Maria Reynolds, sir," she replied._

" _Uh-huh," he nodded. "Have a nice evening, Mrs. Reynolds. Bring that daughter of yours home and get her something to eat."_

" _Yes, sir."_

" _And if that asshole of a husband of yours comes home…stay safe," he said._

" _Of course," she said, and she shut the door behind herself as she went._

 _Alexander let his head fall back against the hard wooden headboard, and he groaned, angry with himself. Once he was satisfied he had sulked enough and mentally beat himself up sufficiently, he got up, cleaned himself, and redressed, then he went down the hall to add a first line to that letter._

* * *

Dear Laurens,

I have made a terrible mistake.

* * *

 _This night was going to be much longer than anticipated._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

My Dear Man,

I apologize for not writing back sooner. Lafayette has been obtained, unfortunately, on his way over the border, and Adrianne, Martha and I, and the children were forced to flee elsewhere. Such a thing was hard with a new baby, but we managed. Which reminds me, I have not written since telling you my darling Martha was with child. He was born in early January, and we have named him George Alexander Laurens, after two of the greatest men we know back home, whom I would greatly like to see again, and whom she would greatly like to meet. Perhaps I shall make it home again someday.

On to the matters of your letter:

We have all made mistakes. I cannot be angry with you for this one, for you are not mine, though I do feel a pang of jealousy. I also cannot be angry with you because, as you know, I have often found myself in the same situation. I am not a faithful man. I try to be, and it is much easier as I have aged, and as my health is not what it was before being wounded at the end of the war. The only bitterness I feel in hearing what you have done is because I cannot imagine how your dear Eliza must feel. Have you told her?

For her sake and the sake of your children, I will implore you to discontinue your visits with this young woman, if you have not already (but knowing you, Alexander, you have probably made this quite an affair; if I am wrong, forgive me for making this assumption).

-J

PS – On the envelope, you will find the address where you may send any response. It is not my current location, but the home of a friend, where I will be going to from time to time to pick up the mail, with much irregularity, so I apologize for the inconsistency I know is to come.

* * *

My Dear J,

I relish your letters as a precious commodity, one which would be very pleasing to me whether they came to me once a month or once a year. You know I will not be angry if I go a few extra weeks without hearing from you.

As for Lafayette, it is unfortunate to hear of his arrest, but I know he can handle himself. He is a smart man. I only pray that you, Adrienne, Martha, and the children will be well protected and secure while he is away.

I am honored to hear that you named your son after the General and myself. Thank you so much, John. It gives me hope, and it warms my heart.

My thoughts are very scattered as of late, my love, and that is no doubt reflected in the state of my writings to you. I would blame that on lack of sleep, for I have not been sleeping much at all as of late, as I continue to write day and night to defend our nations Constitution, and in an attempt to get my debt plan through. If you have any advice, I would love to hear it.

Unfortunately, J, you are right; I have fallen deeply under this woman's spell, with little hope of getting out alive. Though I do have a plan to slowly distance myself from her. I have not seen her at all for nearly a week, so I am hoping this is near its end.

I have not told Eliza and do not plan to, as you said, for her sake and the children's, as well as for the sake of my own legacy.

My respect and admiration,

PS – I will be meeting with Madison and Jefferson this evening to negotiate. Wish me luck.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Dear John,

I have not heard from you in so long, and a percentage of my worries have begun to migrate from my work to you. Love, are you O.K.?

Things here are falling apart more and more every day. Jefferson and Madison, and now Aaron Burr, who I had begun to believe to be a friendly enough colleague of mine until he stole my father-in-law's Senate seat out from under him, are all against me. They seek to destroy me with their every waking breath. Not only that, Washington has stepped down. Now, you must have heard that, but have you heard who his replacement is? John Adams. What will that fool ever get done as President? He may be a member of my own party, but I will never support such a man as him. If he is allowed to continue as President, our new nation will surely crumble like a poorly made pastry.

You are lucky to be in France, even if for the time being you must hide. Please, John, if you can, keep me informed on your current conditions. I am worried.

-A.H.

* * *

 _Just as Alexander was signing off on his letter, he heard a knock at his office door. Cautiously, he placed a stack of papers and a ledger book over the letter before calling them in._

" _Come in," he said._

 _The door opened and in stepped Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and Aaron Burr._

" _Alexander," Burr said._

" _How may I help you, gentlemen?" Alexander asked._

" _We may have some incriminating evidence against you, Alexander," Burr said._

 _Hamilton's face fell for just a moment, then he cleared his throat and stood from his chair, standing directly in front of the stack of papers which hid his letters. Thoughts flooded his mind, swirling around confusedly. Were they here because they knew that John Laurens, an American citizen, had faked his own death and was hiding across the sea somewhere in Europe and that Alexander Hamilton knew his whereabouts? Had they found out about his affair with young Mrs. Reynolds? Or had he possibly done something else against their moral code that he hadn't even realized?_

" _And what might that be?" he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible._

 _Madison handed over a black leather-bound folder, full of envelopes, forms, check stubs, and various other papers. Hamilton flicked through them and saw immediately what it was. Thankfully, he decided, one of his lesser offenses._

" _Would you mind explaining these?" Madison asked quietly, an empathetic expression on his face. "Tell us this isn't what we think it is and we can forget the whole thing, Alexander."_

" _What do you think it is?" Hamilton asked._

" _We think that you've been embezzling government funds, Hamilton," Jefferson said. "Where is this money going? Whose is it, and why are you moving it around so much?"_

 _Hamilton laughed the same way he did when he knew he was about to prove someone terribly wrong._

" _You laugh," Burr said. "Why?"_

" _That's not what this is at all," he answered. "This is my own money. I can show you my own banking book if you like."_

" _And why are you being so secretive about it, and moving it around so many different accounts?" Madison inquired._

" _Well," Hamilton said a bit hesitantly._

" _Yes?" Jefferson said, pressing the matter._

" _You have to promise not to tell another soul what I am about to show you."_

" _Alright," Burr answered, and the other two followed suit, albeit a bit reluctantly._

 _Hamilton turned around, keeping his back to them, blocking their view of his bottom left drawer as he opened it, pushed John's and Angelica's letters aside, and retrieved the one from Maria Reynolds's husband. He shut the drawer quickly and turned to face them, letter in hand and a small grin on his face. He passed the letter to Burr first and stood patiently while the other man scanned through the letter._

" _Oh," Burr said soberly, looking a bit anxious, and he passed the letter to Jefferson, who read it quickly._

" _My God," Jefferson breathed, and he eyed Hamilton carefully as he passed the letter finally to Madison._

 _Madison's eyes widened and he folded the letter abruptly as soon as he had finished it, and he passed it back to Hamilton._

" _You were telling the truth," Madison said._

 _Hamilton nodded._

" _We can forget the matter then, as promised," Burr said. "Have a good day, Alexander."_

 _And with that, Madison took his folder back and the three men turned to depart, but Hamilton stopped them._

" _You promise not to reveal this to anyone," he said, more as a plea than a question._

 _Burr shrugged, giving a single, almost passive nod of his head._

" _That doesn't answer my question," Hamilton said._

 _Burr stepped tentatively forward._

" _We both know what we know about each other, Alexander. You were good enough to keep my secret, so I'll be good enough to keep yours," he said so that just Alexander heard him. "Who among us hasn't been guilty of being engaged in an affair?" He glanced back at Jefferson, who was none the wiser to what Burr had just said. Loud enough for the rest to hear him, Burr finally said, "Of course, Alexander."_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 _After Burr, Jefferson, and Madison had left, Alexander penned a quick post-script to the letter he was about to send to John Laurens, in a fevered hurry. He knew they couldn't be trusted, and he already had a plan formulating at the very front of his mind._

* * *

PS – They know. It is all my own fault. What an idiot I am. Jefferson and Madison came by with Aaron Burr just this afternoon, and they sought to blacken my name, to ruin me by accusing me of tampering with government money, and like a fool, I presented incriminating evidence in return for incriminating evidence, rather than simply clearing my name for what I was being accused. I showed them the letter from James Reynolds. They know now about Maria, so it is only a matter of time before the rumors and stories begin to spread. I must do now the only thing I know to do: I must compose my own shelter from the coming storm. I will write an article explaining all that has happened in hopes of clearing my name, or at least in hopes of confessing to my crime before I am even accused.

* * *

" _Here you are, Monsieur Laurens," the young man at the small corner post office said when John arrived to retrieve the mail several weeks later._

" _Thank you, sir," he said, and he took the letters._

" _Will you and the lovely Madame Laurens and the Marquise be in Versailles this week-end for the ball? I hear it will be magnificent as always."_

" _As you know, the Marquis is away, so I do not think it would be very well for us to travel so far without him, Philippe. Perhaps, if you go, you can give them our regards."_

" _Of course, Monsieur Laurens."_

" _Thank you, Philippe."_

 _John flicked through the letters passively as he headed back to the apartment he, Martha, Adrianne, and the children had been staying out of the public eye since Lafayette's arrest. When he saw Alexander's handwriting among them, he stopped and opened the envelope and began to read. And he soon realized that Alexander had made the biggest mistake of his life, and that was saying a lot._

" _An article?" he muttered to himself. "Alex, you_ idiot _."_

 _Quickly, he looked back up to the date to see when it had been posted. Perhaps he would have time to write back and try to reason with him, perhaps he could catch him just before he published it. But suddenly his heart fell. Nearly two months ago. Knowing Alexander, the article was probably already in circulation weeks ago._

" _Damn it," Laurens hissed, dropping his hands to his side and continuing his journey home. "Alexander, when will you get some sense? You are the smartest man I know, and yet you never cease to amaze me with your stupidity."_

 _And he would tell him just that in his response. It was what Alex needed to hear at this point. He needed to realize just how stupid his decision was._

 _John Laurens paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to his apartment and looked back down to the letter. Nearly two months ago. Alex likely knew already how stupid his decision was. Two months was enough time for a lifetime of embarrassment and regret. And if Angelica had heard by now, well, she would be the first to tell him just how stupid he was. No, John didn't need to tell him that. At least…not in those words._

" _Any word from America?" Martha asked sweetly, looking up from her sewing as she sat in her armchair by the small fireplace when her husband came in._

" _Any word from Gilbert?" Adrianne called from the kitchen, her tone making it evident that she believed her concern was more urgent, and maybe it was. Alex could get himself out of the prison he had put himself in; Laff, well, Laff couldn't get himself out as easily._

" _Nothing from the Marquis yet, Adri," John said regretfully. "I am still waiting just as you are. But I have received a letter from America; Alexander has written again."_

" _How is he?" Martha asked._

" _Well, probably not so great, love," he said, sitting in the chair across from her._

" _What has happened? Is Eliza alright? His children?"_

" _Everyone is in good health, I presume. Alexander is experiencing some difficulty at work, and now he has just gotten himself into a lot bigger trouble, though."_

 _He handed her the letter, and she looked over it quickly. "Oh poor Eliza!" she cried._

" _I do feel bad for Eliza." He took the letter back._

" _Oh, can you only imagine how she must feel? That's terrible, John, just terrible."_

 _He nodded. "I know," he sighed._

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

 **I'm back! Sorry I haven't updated in so long. This semester has been super busy, and I just haven't found the time to sit down and add to this story. Those of you who follow me in addition to following this story have probably seen that I've written a** _ **Sherlock**_ **one-shot ("This"), two** _ **Vikings**_ **one-shots ("What Will You Choose?" and "Brothers in Arms"), and continued to update my multi-chapter** _ **Vikings**_ **fic ("If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita"), albeit not regularly. I am a very sporadic, erratic writer – sometimes I'll post multiple chapters or works in a day, and sometimes I'll go weeks or months without posting anything. And I do apologize. Seriously, guys, I feel like a bad author for keeping you guys waiting for so long for updates that are on average less than a thousand words each. Hopefully once this semester is over I'll be able to make it up to you with more regular updates.**

 **Until that time, here is this, and I'll see you again in (insert really long, indeterminable amount of time here). Thanks for sticking with me, y'all. It means a lot. :)**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 _The next four years came and went, interspersed with messages like_

* * *

J,

Eliza still will not speak to me. What shall I do? There is a coldness I cannot bear within my own home, and a hatred unlike any other, and I fear I am the one to blame. How could I have been so foolish? I have apologized probably thousands of times, but nothing seems to repair the hurt and embarrassment I have caused her.

In other happier news, Philip has started college. I am so proud of him. His genius, I think, may be beyond mine. Unfortunately, I fear, so may his love for the fairer sex. I only pray he does not become like me. But then, that seems to be all he wants: to be just like his father. I wish you could be here to show him a better example of what a man ought to be.

Yours,

A

* * *

 _and_

* * *

Alexander,

Your Eliza still loves you. You just need to show her that you realize what you did was a mistake. Apologizing simply is not enough. You must try to show her you are a better man and that you are sorry for what you did. Actions make more of a difference than words do, Alexander. I am not sure when you will get that into your fool head (of course, you know I think the world of you, but really, Alex, you are an idiot sometimes).

And you are right to be proud, to have such a brilliant son. But, with parents like you and Eliza, how could young Philip Hamilton not be brilliant? I'm sure all your children are, in their own ways. Though I do hope as you do that Philip is not like you are with women (or…well, you know what I mean). He is still practically a boy, is he not? Tell him he needs to keep his focuses on his studies! Not that that will make any kind of difference, having your blood in his veins.

Frances was married in the spring to a young man introduced to her at a ball by the Marquise. She is very happy with him and they are expecting their first child, who, God willing, will be born in the mid-winter. I shall be a grandfather soon and to tell you the truth I do not feel nearly old enough for that. Tell me, Alex, where has the time gone? It seems not yesterday you and I were young aides de camp to General Washington. Soon we shall be old men, being fed and cleaned up after by our poor children, a burden on the world. Perhaps we still have a few good years before that happens, enough time to cause lots more trouble.

I should desperately like to see you again, dearest. I don't know if I ever will, but it is what I want more than anything in this world: to see you again and to get in trouble like we did in the old days when we were much younger, before wives and children, before failure and freedom, before death and rebirth. Especially before the world turned upside down, though we thought that a huge, miraculous victory, and maybe it was. But it was shortly after that that an ocean was placed between us and my fate was decided, that I should spend the rest of my days in bitter irony in a land still without freedom after fighting so long and so hard for just that.

But I am being the negative one now, aren't I? I realize now the truth behind what Eliza used to tell us: we truly are lucky to be alive right now, even if it doesn't always seem like it. After all that we've been through, that is especially true.

-J

* * *

 _until finally, the letters came less and less. Alex did not worry; he simply didn't have the time. And John was busy, too, for he had several children and grandchildren to love and dote on and care for. He had a job as an English teacher in a nearby church school also, and he wrote a lot on the side. Alex wrote a lot, too, but his writings were much less relaxing, for he filled his entire day with them, trying and trying to reform the government, to make it what he and George Washington had always wanted it to be, what it needed to be. But his ideas were almost always misconstrued or simply thrown out before anyone even tried understanding them._

 _Late one night, as he was sitting awake in his office after a long day at work, Philip came to him looking quite distraught._

" _What is it, son?" Alexander asked, looking up at him._

" _Can I talk to you about something?" he asked._

" _Of course," Alex responded, motioning for him to come in and sit in the extra chair, and he did. "What's on your mind?"_

" _I…I challenged someone to a duel," his son said, looking down at his hands in his lap._

 _In front of him now, Alexander Hamilton saw not his grown son, the young man of nineteen who had just graduated at the top of his class. He saw the little boy who would hide behind his mother if the dog barked too loudly, the little boy who would cover his face crying if he saw a spider in the water closet, the little boy who would crawl into his father's bed at night if he had a bad dream._

" _No," Alex breathed, shaking his head. "You…you didn't…"_

" _I did," Philip said shakily. "Father, I don't know what to do. I can't back out now, can I? I have to do this."_

" _Son, I – I don't know what to tell you, but," Alex paused, looking past his son at the wall, "you can't back out now. You have to go through with it if you want to maintain honor and respect."_

" _I don't even have a gun. What was I thinking?"_

 _Alex pulled out the drawer to his desk where he kept his gun and looked at it hesitantly. "I do; you can take mine."_

 _He didn't know why he said it. As soon as he did, he instantly regretted it. But it was too late now to take it back, so he lifted the gun out of the drawer and placed it into his eldest son's shaking hands. He showed him how to use it, and as he did he realized how painfully simple it was, how painfully simple it was to hold death in your hands and to give it to a man who was practically still a child, knowing full and well that he may not be the one to come out alive once he was done wielding it._

 _But then, the purpose of a duel wasn't to kill someone; Alex knew that. It was just to scare the shit out of whoever was dumb enough to stand across the field from you with a gun in his hands. It was just about intimidation and showmanship. Most duels didn't even end in gunfire, and the ones that did, well, there were only minor injuries. Sure, there were cowards and fools who did shoot and kill, but those men were few and far between, and they definitely weren't celebrated. Philip should be just fine. Philip should be fine. He should be –_

" _Have you ever been in a duel?"_

" _Yes, son, a few," Alex said after a moment._

" _And were you shot?"_

" _No. Son, you don't need to worry about that. If you don't want to shoot, you don't have to. There will be time to negotiate. No one has to shoot at all. But if it gets down to it, just aim your gun into the air and if he's a man of honor and dignity, he will do the same. You will be fine."_

" _You're sure?"_

" _I'm sure."_

" _Alright. Thank you."_

 _Philip stood to leave, but just as he made it to the door, Alex stopped him._

" _Son?"_

" _Yes?"_

" _Would you mind telling me what you challenged him to a duel over?"_

 _Without hesitating and with the most deadly serious, vacant expression on his face, Philip Hamilton said, "You."_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Alexander,

It has been a long time since I have heard from you – since any of us have heard from you. The papers do not come fast enough from America for us to know if anything has happened, and our own papers do not report it. If you could write just a single line so that we know you are O.K., that would be enough. Alexander, I am begging you. I am worried. Laff is worried, our families are worried.

All is well here; I have started teaching English, under the alias "Mister Ball." I know it is probably not wise, seeing as it is my mother's maiden name, but I would be surprised if anyone should know. Truth be told, I've grown restless again. You know how I always was. I think maybe I do want someone to find out about who I really am, or at least come close to it, just for the excitement of it all. However, if I am found out, no doubt my father will have me and Martha and the children on the first ship back to South Carolina, far away from the French and their war. The only good thing to come out of that, I think, would be that it would make me closer to you again.

I must cut this letter short, Alexander, for I am running short on time and paper (but mostly paper; there is so little of anything of value here right now), but I will reiterate: please write to tell us how you are.

Yours,

J

* * *

Alexander,

It has been nearly a year since your last letter. I have written you a dozen at least, and still have not heard from you.

Please write.

J

* * *

Alexander,

You know how this worries me. I do not know if you are alive or dead, or if you are ill, or if something has happened. Just a word; that's all I ask.

J

PS – I am a grandfather

* * *

Alexander,

It is obvious that you are not going to respond. And that is fine. You know where I am should you wish to reach me, but, love, this will be the last you will hear from me for the time being. Whatever it is I have done to offend you so that you no longer wish to write to me, I am sorry, but I cannot keep hurting myself this way.

J

* * *

Mon ami,

We are all very worried, especially John and me. We have not heard from you in almost a year and a half. I have heard some news; more like rumors, really, about your son. Please tell me it is not true.

-Gilbert

* * *

 _Alexander sighed and tucked this latest letter in the back of his bottom desk drawer. He hated keeping them in the dark this way, but it was hard to shed any light when all you feel inside you is darkness. He hated himself, too, for killing his eldest son. Because that's what this was, really. George Eacker may have pulled the trigger, but it was on Alexander Hamilton's hands where the blood was found. He knew that in every ounce of his body, and he had to live with that_

 _He was the one who had to hold his son's lifeless body in his arms. He was the one who had to see his wife, who had only just welcomed him back into her life, turn away from him again. He was the one who had to bury his eldest son, the boy in whom he saw all the best parts of himself and Eliza, and none of the worst, the boy who had the grandest future ahead of him, the boy who Alexander still saw as the tiny little baby in his wife's arms on that cold January morning when the war was still waging hard and strong outside their doors._

 _So he picked up a pen and a page and began to write. That was the only escape he had, but right now, it was anything but that. At the very least, he told himself, he could get it all off his chest._

* * *

John,

I am sorry that I have kept you waiting for so long, but…something has happened. My son, my Philip, has died and it is my fault. He challenged a man to a duel, and instead of talking him out of it, I gave him my gun and I gave him advice. If I could go back and change it all, I would. _God, I would._

I am glad to hear, though, that things are going so well for you. You deserve it.

Alexander

* * *

 _He sprinkled a bit of pounce from the pot on his desk over the ink to dry it before pouring it off into the second pot and folding the letter. He was just about to shove it in an envelope and seal it, but then he had another idea._

 _He took the paper back out of the envelope and picked up his pen once more._

* * *

PS – I would love greatly to hear from you again, but I beg you, my dearest, not to write back until you have heard from me a second time. I really wish I could explain, but I think it is best, for now, that I did not. I love you.

* * *

 _And then he did something he never thought he would have to do, not for a long time. He pulled a pack of matches from his breast pocket and set it on the table; then he opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out the dozens and dozens of envelopes from John and Lafayette, every single one since the end of the war. Twenty-one years of letters, probably hundreds of pages, millions of words. It was a magnificent, wonderful, horrifying sight, and a beautiful secret, a beautiful lie. And it had to die with him._

 _His chest was tight and his stomach felt as though it were rolling. This wasn't something he ever thought he would have to do. This wasn't something he ever wanted to do, but he knew he had to. Alexander stood slowly and crossed the room to close the door, making sure to do so almost silently so as not to wake anyone, and then he grabbed his metal rubbish bin from the corner. Using the few small wadded up bits of paper that were already in the bottom as a sort of tinder, he started his fire._

" _This is the only way," he told himself._

 _He held his breath as he dropped the first handful of envelopes in and watched them catch fire, the flames slowly spreading over their yellowy-white pages, turning them black and brown and crumple into ashes._

 _Eliza always spoke with such pride and wonder and naivety about what future historians would think and what they would say about their lives. In truth, she was just as obsessed with a legacy as he was. It was from her that he learned this lesson, too. Maybe Eliza was right when she burned his letters; maybe you can save yourself by getting rid of the problem at its roots rather than adding pointless, increasingly destructive explanations to it. If you didn't want something remembered, if you wanted to hide the truth, or even, as he wanted to now, to preserve an alternate truth, all you had to do was light a little fire and no one would ever know._

 _A little while later, as the last of the envelopes burned at his feet, he lifted one final sheet from his desk._

* * *

Alexander,

I regret that it has come to this, truly, and I am sure that you do, too, but as you and I both know, it is the only way to settle this once and for all. Let's think of it as our final courtroom debate. I'm sure that will make you feel better about it, not that you would need reassurance or encouragement to duel the likes of me. Since the early days of the war, I've always suspected you wouldn't pass up an opportunity to shoot me, and now you have one.

As to the time and place, I should think Weehawken would suffice, at dawn. That way we can be assured that a passerby getting caught in the crossfire will be nearly impossible. I will see you there.

A. Burr

* * *

 _This one, he would not burn. This one he would leave. Let Eliza have it, or let her "future historians" have it. He needed the world to understand why Weehawken was the only way out._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 _A month passed, two, three, four, and all the while, John waited for that next letter, which never came. He kept his eyes on the papers, too, for any news from America. He tried not to worry himself. Alexander Hamilton was a smart man – he had the mouth of a fool and the will of an addict, but his mind was strong. Whatever happened, he was smart enough to get out. But that last bit bothered John – "I beg you…not to write back until you have heard from me a second time." That meant something was wrong. He had gotten himself into something that was so serious even he thought there was a chance he couldn't talk or write himself out of it._

 _So John prayed for his friend. He was never a praying man, never an overly religious man. But now, he felt that was all he could do. For the next few months, he prayed between lessons and between meals, and even before bed each evening._

 _One morning, as John and Martha sat quietly at the breakfast table in their little house on the Marquis and Marquise's estate, there was an urgent knock at the door. Martha started up to go and get it, but for some reason that John couldn't quite explain even to himself, he put his napkin down and gave her a quiet nod._

" _I've got it," he said, and he left her to go and answer the door._

 _When he opened it, there stood Gilbert, still in his nightshirt and robe, with no shoes on his feet. He hadn't even had time to do anything with his hair._

" _What is it?" John asked him. "What is the matter?"_

 _The Marquis handed him a newspaper clipping and cleared his throat before whispering in a hoarse voice, "This has happened, my dear man. I am so sorry."_

 _John looked blankly down at the slip of paper in his hand then back up to Lafayette, confused. Then he gave in, and he read the article._

* * *

 _Fatal Duel!_

A Duel was fought at New-York, on the 11th - between Col. _Burr_ and Gen. _Hamilton_ ; the following is the notice of it in the Evening Post: -

The universal anxiety which agitates all classes of people in this city for the fate of General Hamilton, renders it proper that we should state what at the time of putting this paper to press he was alive – Would to God we could add that there is room for the most distant hope of his recovery! – Alas! nature is fast sinking under the injury; and but a few hours more must close the scene forever.

It is probable the public will at a proper time, be presented with a correct statement of the causes that produced and the circumstances that attended this deplorable disaster.

We stop the press to announce the melancholy tidings that GENERAL HAMILTON IS DEAD!

* * *

" _What is this?" John asked in disbelief, even after reading it twice._

" _Hercules sent me that this morning," Lafayette said._

" _So it is not a joke?"_

" _I do not think Hercules would joke about such a thing, or that he would go to the trouble to fake a newspaper, John," he replied._

 _John ran a hand over his face and let out a long, shaky breath. "That Goddamned fool," he muttered with a little laugh. "He's finally gone and got himself killed."_

" _John, are you alright?" Laff asked concernedly._

" _He's such a fucking idiot," John said, a sick smile on his face, though the Marquis could see in his eyes that he was dying inside. "Can you believe him?" He laughed. "What do you think it was over?"_

" _Does it really matter now?" Lafayette asked quietly._

" _No, you're right, it doesn't," John said. "It could have been anything. It doesn't matter. He's dead." He laughed again and shook his head._

" _Really, John, are you okay?"_

" _Of course," John spat. "Why wouldn't I be?"_

" _I'm sure this is very shocking. I understand if you're sad or scared or angry. I am, too."_

" _OF COURSE I'M FUCKING ANGRY, LAFF!" John roared. "OF COURSE I AM!"_

" _John, please calm down," Lafayette said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's alright."_

" _NO!" He threw Lafayette's hand away. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. "No, it isn't."_

" _I know. I know it isn't. I…I understand. He was my friend, too. I know this is difficult."_

" _Do you really understand?" John looked at Lafayette, pained. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he shook his head, closing his eyes tightly for a moment before looking back to Laff. "You know what he and I really were. Don't pretend you don't know how much this is_ killing _me. I doubt anyone truly knows what I am feeling right now."_

 _Lafayette pulled him into a hug, and this time John didn't push him away. "I know, I know."_

 _John sobbed into Lafayette's chest, and it was all Laff could do to hold himself together for John because he wanted to cry, too. He wanted to scream. But he knew for John's sake, he had to keep it in until he was alone._

" _You know," Lafayette said after a moment, "I think I might know someone who would understand what you're feeling, a hundred percent."_

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

 **The newspaper article used here is from the** _ **Newburyport Herald,**_ **circa July 1804, just days after Alexander Hamilton's death. As a historian, I wanted to get this particular area just right, so I went looking for a report of Hamilton's death. I originally wanted to write a piece of my own for this, but I couldn't seem to get into the head of an early 19** **th** **century American journalist (my area of expertise is Ireland and the Irish-American diaspora). I couldn't accurately depict the level of extravagant dramatics that went into this type of writing, so this was the next best thing.**

 **There will only be one more chapter before I conclude this little story, and for those of you still reading, thank you and I hope you have enjoyed the ride thus far.**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 _Fifty years. Nearly fifty years had passed since John had last seen Alexander, since the war had been won and John, having successfully faked his death, had made it to the other side of the Atlantic and started life anew. Since then, he had a second child (Alexander had eight), improved his French, traded his sword and gun for chalk and a blackboard, and gotten on with his life._

 _But he hadn't actually, not really. Though he had been happy with Martha and with the Marquis and Marquise and their children, he never stopped thinking about Alexander and how much he greatly wanted to return to America._

 _Now, fifty years later, in the fall of 1824, he finally had the opportunity to. But now he was old, he was tired, he was weak, and Alexander was gone, taken from this life much too soon._

 _He knelt with much effort and a soft grunt by the side of the grave and tucked a final letter under one of the scattered stones which covered the face of it._

" _Come along, John," the Marquis said a little ways off._

" _Alright," John said with a playful grin playing at the corners of his mouth, though the sadness in his eyes remained. "Coming then, Laff."_

" _Excuse me," he heard a woman say a few rows over, and he looked up to see a woman with graying hair tending to a nearby grave. Though she was probably nearing seventy, there was a light and an innocence about her face, and what he could only pin down as an undying sense of hope (but hope for what?)._

" _Yes, ma'am?" he said, standing slowly._

" _Gilbert – I heard him call you John," she said, eyeing him curiously. "You couldn't be…"_

 _He cocked his head to the side._

" _Never mind," she shook her head and ducked down again. "My husband Alexander, whose grave you're standing by, he had a friend named John, but he died in the war."_

" _Eliza?" John said._

" _Yes, how did you –"_

" _It is me," he interrupted her._

 _She shook her head again, not even bothering to look up. "No. You can't be. You shouldn't tease an old widow."_

" _Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, I gave a speech at your wedding," he said. "I saw you and that rascal husband of yours off on your wedding night and I danced all night with your sister Peggy to fend off all the unwanted suitors. And…I may or may not have gotten drunker than a skunk on New Year's Eve that night, too."_

 _Her jaw fell slack and she looked up then, eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Laurens," she said softly, and she dropped the bundle of dead flowers she had been holding as she rushed over to wrap him in an embrace. "It can't be. It really can't. But…you're here. How?"_

" _That would be my doing, Madame," Lafayette said, suddenly sounding as smooth as he had fifty years before._

" _You – you saved him, and you didn't tell Alexander?" she said. "He would have so loved to have known you were alive, John."_

" _He knew," John admitted._

" _And he never told me!"_

" _I'm sorry, Eliza," John said. "Really, I am. We just didn't know how to tell you, and we didn't want my father to find out."_

" _John Laurens, you were a grown man! Your father could not have done a thing to you!"_

" _Ma'am, he's the reason I did a lot of the things I did as a younger man. He was more controlling than you'd think."_

 _She shut her mouth slowly and nodded, her brow furrowed. "We wouldn't have told him, John. I wouldn't have told him."_

" _I know."_

" _He died in 1792, you probably know. You could have come back."_

" _I don't know why I didn't come back, Eliza. And I'm sorry I didn't. I…I like to tell myself it was because of the political upheaval in France then, but…that wasn't really an excuse."_

" _You're back now, though," she said._

" _I can't stay."_

" _Why? You can finally have the freedom and the peace you fought so hard for."_

" _Everything I have is in France," he said. "Everything I built. My children are there, and their children. My Martha is buried there. Freedom was won here, and I fought hard for it, but it wasn't won for me. This nation is beautiful. There are a few things I'd still like to see change, but for the most part, it is more than I ever hoped for. But it isn't mine anymore, and I would feel wrong to come back to it. It's so different than last I saw it, you see."_

 _She sighed, and offered him a somber nod. "I know," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "When are you leaving then?"_

" _We –"_

" _We are touring the States," Lafayette said, cutting John short. "We were supposed to leave New York an hour ago, but Monsieur Laurens insisted on saying goodbye to Alexander."_

" _So soon," she said sadly. "Well, I am glad to have seen you anyhow."_

" _And I you," John said. "You've become such a wonderful woman, Eliza. I should tell you that I've heard about your work with the orphans. Fantastic."_

" _Thank you," she smiled._

" _Alexander would be so proud," he said._

" _Thank you," she said again, her voice breaking and a tear sliding down her cheek. She hugged him again._

" _Thank you," he said, returning the hug. "Thank you for making the world a better place, and thank you for telling our story."_

" _How did you know about that?" Eliza asked._

" _People here talk a lot about you, Eliza," John smiled. "You're quite an impressive woman. As I said before, Alexander would be so proud."_

 _She laughed once through her tears. "I hope so."_

 _John glanced back at Laff, who was looking down at his watch for the tenth time since they arrived at the cemetery._

" _I should go," he said._

" _Alright," Eliza agreed. "But I'd love to see you again before you go back to France. Or at least hear from you every now and then."_

" _Of course," John said, kissing her on the forehead before turning to follow the Marquis back the carriage._

* * *

 _On November fourth, a carriage bearing John Laurens and the Marquis entered Monticello, led by a parade of nearly a hundred and twenty soldiers. Thomas Jefferson greeted them warmly, welcoming them as old friends to his estate. It was quite a show, Laurens thought, and much too big, but Thomas meant well. He was kinder than he had been described by Alexander, and much more relaxed than he had been when John had met him briefly in the early days of his recovery when Thomas was still the Ambassador to France._

 _Age had done him well._

 _But John, feeling heavy of heart and mind, aching with the old wounds of nearly half a century before and the hauntings of Old American Ghosts, fell ill. Age and the pain and sickness that came from being in this new but all-too-familiar land began to wear on him. By the first of December, it had gotten so bad he was forced to return home to France ahead of schedule, and it was there that he passed away only a few days after returning._

 _Frances was the one to alert the Marquis._

" _He asked me to tell you thank you," she said to Lafayette as they stood by her parents' graves when he finally returned later that next year, "for letting him see just what he had fought long and hard for."_

 _And the old Marquis smiled through his tears, and he offered her his arm._

" _What do you smile for,_ Oncle _?" she asked, smiling now, too._

" _I am glad to have given him the chance to see glory," he said, "and to see our legacy."_


End file.
